To anyone else, this might sound like the start of a whole different conversation. But I hear what Mojo is saying between his words—he likes my work, and wants me along not just to help out at the convention but to give him a tattoo at some point over the weekend. “Sounds good,” I say, munching on some fries. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just something witty,” Mojo says. “I like the letters you did for Darcy’s carpe diem tat. Back in May, remember?”
I remember. I hate to break it to him, but I have to. “You know that was a font, right? I didn’t freehand them.”
“I’m not saying I want them specifically,” Mojo clarifies. “I’m saying I like them, that’s all. You do good letter work. I want something short and sweet and I think you can do it.”
“I’m sure I can do it, whatever you have in mind.” I give him a leer he misses because he’s busy watching the road. “Why can’t you do it yourself? Everyone knows your letters rock.”
Mojo glances in his sideview mirror, studiously avoiding my gaze. He rubs the back of his hand across his mouth, fidgets a little in his seat…is he embarrassed? By what? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about if he wants a tattoo in a place he can’t reach or see himself. “Moe?” I ask. “I’m not saying I can’t do it, man. I will, you know it, anything you’d like. It’s cool. Are you thinking maybe across your back or something?”
He gives me a quick look, just a shift of the eyes without moving his head, then grins boyishly. God, he has a sexy smile, slightly crooked, like he’s been caught doing something bad but he knows he’s going to be able to talk his way out of it easily enough. “I want something to surprise Darcy the next time we do it. If we ever do it again. She’s a royal bitch now that she’s pregnant.”
I almost choke on my drink. “Wait, you want me to ink your dick? Ouch!”
“Just above it,” he explains. His hand drifts to his lap, where he draws an imaginary curve across his lower belly. “Right here. Open wide, maybe, or say ahh. I haven’t decided yet.”
“There are less letters in say ahh,” I point out. “It’ll be quicker. I’m not saying less painful, because you know it’s going to hurt like a mother.”
Mojo nods. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I want to do it. I want you to do it.”
A sly grin spreads across my face. “I get to see your dick,” I sing in a childish voice.
With a laugh, Mojo says, “See? There’s something in it for you, too.”
* * * *
It’s late by the time we reach the hotel, and the only room they have available for us has a single kingsize bed. “Great,” I mutter as I help Mojo unload our bags and crates onto one of the hotel’s luggage carts. “Did you even ask if they had any double rooms open?”
“It’s fucking eleven o’clock at night,” Mojo points out. “Everyone who’s coming to this con is already here. We showed up last so we got what was left. Don’t sweat it.”
Easy for him to say—he isn’t going to be trying to sleep with a raging hard-on mere inches from a guy he’s been jonesing over for months now. As he finishes putting the last of his tattoo supplies onto the cart, he says, “A king size bed is huge, man. It’s like as wide as it is long. We can sleep on separate sides and it’ll be like we’re each in our own bed. You’ll see.”
“Just wait until we wake up spooned together,” I threaten. “When you feel my dick against your ass, you’ll wish we had separate beds.”
“It’s a suite,” Mojo says, trying to reason with me. “If push comes to shove, I’ll sleep on the couch. Heaven knows I’m used to it now with Darcy.”
Our room’s on the seventh floor. Why we have to truck all our supplies up there instead of leaving them in the dealer’s room on third is beyond me, but Mojo says he doesn’t want to worry about unpacking everything tonight. “It’s late and I’m sure registration is already closed. We’ll just set up bright and early in the morning.”
“I don’t do bright and early,” I remind him. “The 804 opens at noon and most days I still can’t make it to work on time.”
Mojo tosses our backpacks onto the bed and rolls the cart against one wall, our tattoo supplies still boxed up and ready to go. “I don’t even know if that floor is secure or not. The last thing I want is to lose a thousand dollars’ worth of supplies because I left them in an unlocked dealer’s room overnight.”
Despite being a suite, our room’s a bit on the small side. When we first walk in, there’s the bathroom, closet, fridge, even a little mini microwave in case we want to heat anything up. Then there’s a den-like area, complete with a wraparound sectional sofa, armchair, desk, and large, flat screen TV. There’s another television, same size, in the bedroom area, practically at the foot of the supersized king bed. I sink onto the edge of the mattress and lie back, arms out. Mojo’s right—we could probably fit three people on this thing and not even realize we weren’t sleeping alone.
To prove his point, Mojo flops onto the other side of the bed and stretches out alongside me. Propping his head up on his elbow, he grins down and says, “See? What’d I tell you?”
“You should get one of these for yourself,” I joke. “Then Darcy won’t be able to complain about you breathing down her neck.”
“Her and her damn belly take up our whole bed.” Mojo rolls his eyes and sighs. “Some days I can’t even begin to imagine why we’re doing this, you know? I’m nobody’s father.”
With a shrug, I admit, “Not yet. You still have a few months to go. Then you’re going to be one whether you want to or not.”
Mojo picks at the worsted coverlet beneath us. “You ever think about having kids?”
“Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head emphatically. “Not me. They’re great, don’t get me wrong, but that’s totally not my thing.”
Now Mojo looks at me, a crease furrowing his brows. “Is it because you like guys? I mean, you can always adopt, right?”
“It’s because I’m selfish.” I sit up and smooth down my T-shirt, suddenly uncomfortable. “Even if I was straight, I wouldn’t want kids. I got my art, man. I tattoo and draw and sometimes I get a little dick on the side. I’m not ready to settle down or focus all my attention on someone who isn’t me. I got things to do, you know? I got plans, and they don’t include kids or a husband, nothing like that. Hell, I can’t even commit to a pet. No way am I going to settle down with children.”
Mojo turns to leer at me. “Speaking of a little dick…”
I give him what I hope is a withering look. “If you mean yours, I seriously doubt it’s little by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Let’s do the tattoo now,” he says, rolling onto his stomach to stare at me. “It’s still fairly early. After we set up downstairs tomorrow, we’ll probably be there for the rest of the weekend, day and night, inking until our hands fall off. What do you say?”
What can I say? He has a point. My jeans tighten around my crotch just thinking about touching him there. “You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?” I ask. “It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”
He waves that away. “I have Darcy’s name on the inside of my lip, see?” He pulls down his lower lip and shows me. “That was a bitch. I think I can handle this.”
It takes me a few minutes to dig out my supplies. He wants just black ink, which tells me he knows it’s going to hurt and he doesn’t want to prolong the agony any more than he has to. He settles for say ahh, so after I have my machine ready and my needles lined up, I sketch out the letters and try not to watch him undress. Still, I can’t help but look—from the corner of my eye, I see him unzip his jeans and slide them down. He’s by the foot of the bed, so I can see him perfectly from where I sit on the sofa. He wears a pair of thin boxers under the jeans, and from the way the front bulges a bit, I know he’s freeballing underneath.
God.
My hand shakes a little and I ball up the piece of paper. Tossing it aside, I try again. The next time I look up, Mojo stands
in front of me with his T-shirt pulled up over his large belly, his boxers hanging low on his hips. With his hand, he draws an imaginary line across his pubic mound—when he does, he tugs at the fabric of his boxers and for one breathless moment, the fly gapes open. “I’m thinking right about here, Can you curve it a bit? Like this?”
My gaze is glued to the front of his boxers. They tent slightly, but I don’t know if this is turning him on or if he just got hard when he took off the jeans. “Wray?” he prompts. He draws that line again and I stare into the shadowy gap in his fly, wishing I could make out his cock and balls in the darkness. “Can you curve it?”
“Sure.”
My fingers feel nerveless, but the artistic side of my brain takes control. I sketch out the letters without thinking about it, curving them slightly so they’ll ride above Mojo’s dick like a banner. Say ahh. My mind skips ahead—he’s a hairy man, will one razor be enough to shave the area clean? Where am I going to put my other hand while I’m working? I’ll need to hold him steady while I’m inking him but Jesus, I’ll be shaking like a leaf the whole time. Can I do this?
I mean, seriously…can I?
Fuck that, I tell myself, finishing up the sketch. You will do it, you will, you have to. If you don’t, you’ll regret it. Just get into the zone—this is your job. It doesn’t matter if it’s Mojo or Joe Blow off the street. It’s your job.
He sinks down beside me on the sofa and watches as I finish the letters. Suddenly I’m all too aware of how close he is to me, his chest pressing lightly against my arm, his hand resting so damn close to my leg, it’s unnerving. “That’s perfect,” he breathes. “Who needs a computer when you can hand draw lettering like that? You’re good, man. Real good.”
The praise warms me up inside. I half-turn, holding the piece of paper between us as if it’s going to be much of a buffer. “Let me see where you want it to go.”
Mojo leans back on the sofa and pulls up his shirt. I watch him unsnap the front of his boxers—not all the way, just enough to expose the tender skin above the root of his dick. As he works his way down and each snap opens his fly wider, I hold my breath…surely the next snap will show me tawny, tufted hair, kinked at the base of his shaft. I can see the length’s shadowy form through the boxers; the fabric is taut above it, and with each snap that opens, it jiggles a bit like a mast slowly rising inch by inch…
But there’s no hair.
“I didn’t peg you as a manscaper,” I tease, daring to stroke the area. I can tell he doesn’t shave it normally—I feel slightly raised bumps, razor burn. The skin feels hot to my touch, as if Mojo’s burning up inside. For me, I think, but I’m just flattering myself.
Or am I? When my wrist accidentally bumps against the cock straining his boxers, Mojo gasps and catches his lower lip between his teeth.
Now that’s a sexy look on him.
Hoping to return to a professional air between us, I hold the piece of paper up to the exposed flesh on his lower abdomen. I try my best to ignore where the letters are going and concentrate on the drawing itself. “I’m going to have to go over the spot again with a clean razor,” I say, just to fill the silence between us. “You’re such a hairy beast, I’m surprised this patch of pubes didn’t grow back overnight.”
By now there’s no denying it—his cock is hard, and the way he looks away from me whenever I glance up at his face tells me he’s hoping I don’t notice. Hello? How can I not? The thing’s practically poking me in the eye, and when I finally start inking down there, I’m going to have to maneuver around it the best I can. It’s like an elephant in the room, an embarrassment neither of us wants to mention.
Well, he probably doesn’t want to mention it, but damn, I want to take a few moments to concentrate on nothing else.
“What’s this?” I take the plunge and grab his dick through his shorts. It feels like sheathed steel in my grip; I give it a little squeeze and feel it stiffen in my fist. God, he’s huge.
I expect him to slap my hand away—get angry, yell, something. Instead he surprises me by laying his head back against the sofa and moaning my name. “Wray, Jesus. Took you long enough. I thought I was going to bust a nut before you noticed.”
I stroke his length through his boxers. “Wait, you want me to do this?”
He moans again and nods, his whole body relaxing. His legs spread farther apart, easing him down into the cushions a little, and the boxers gap open less than an inch above where my hand holds his dick. “You always talk a good game,” Mojo says, one hand rubbing over his stomach as I knead his shaft between my fingers. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now.”
“You’re straight,” I remind him. When I start to pull my hand away, he clasps both of his over my wrist, holding it in place. “What about Darcy?”
Through half-closed lids, Mojo gives me a sardonic look. “She already thinks we’re doing it. We might as well—”
“And she’s cool with it?” I ask, incredulous. Thanks for telling me sooner. Shit.
“She always says she’d crack my balls if I screw around on her with another woman,” Mojo explains. “But she doesn’t want me touching her, so finally I was like, then what the hell am I supposed to do, you know? And she goes, what, isn’t Wray putting out?”
I laugh as I spread my fingers across the bulge in the front of Mojo’s boxers. His grip relaxes when he realizes I’m not going to stop what I’m doing—actually, now that I have Darcy’s blessing, I don’t want to stop. My skin tingles where it brushes along Mojo’s shaved flesh, then I dip my fingertips down into the fly of Mojo’s boxers and pop open the remaining buttons.
His heavy dick swings up to meet me. It’s thick and veined, the cockhead a ruddy brown that reminds me of autumn leaves. A trickle of clear liquid bubbles from the tip, tracing down the slit on the underside. The way it curves up to meet me says Mojo’s just as eager as I am to take this moment between us and stretch it out into the night, as far as it will go. He’s a good seven inches hard, easily two inches wide—I was right, he’s got a fat cock, and I want it, from root to tip. I want it all.
But I hesitate. We have a great thing between us, an easy-going relationship, a bromance unlike anything I have with anyone else in my life. Part of the reason for that is because I’ve always felt safe in the illusion that, no matter how much I teased and flirted, he stayed just beyond my reach. He was straight, untouchable, not mine. Anything we do from here on out, anything at all, changes everything.
With the tip of my forefinger, I trace down along the underside of his dick. I watch the way it responds to my touch—how it quivers, eager for more. “If we do this,” I start, raising my gaze to meet Mojo’s.
He stares at me with an open expression I never thought I’d see in his eyes. “Wray, I’m not into guys. I’m just not. I love Darcy, you know. But we have something, man. Something here—” He clenches his T-shirt in a fist and taps the middle of his chest, indicating his heart. “I…I think I love you, too.”
The admission should send me running for the hills—I’m not the type to fall in love, I’m not. But I know what he means—there is something, call it love, call it lust, call it curiosity or whatever you want, it’s a tie binding us together. If we do this, the knot will only tighten. We’ll be pulled together, closer than before.
And Darcy’s cool with it, and Mojo’s offering me a chance I never thought I’d get. Why would I possibly turn it down?
I don’t know what to say. I’m not a romantic; the word ‘love’ doesn’t come easy for me, even to family. My mother came to terms with this years ago. I’ve never said it to another man and, no matter how awesome I think Mojo is, he isn’t going to be the first to hear it from me. His admission hangs between us awkwardly, like a grenade with a pulled pin, waiting to explode. We’re both waiting—I’m half as hard as he is, and the fact he’s bared himself to me, body and soul, spurs on the erection growing in my jeans. I need to say something, do something, anything, before the moment sli
ps away from me and is gone.
So I do the only thing I can think to do—I take it firmly in hand, take Mojo in hand, clasp my fingers tight around his thick cock even as I unzip my jeans. I lean toward him, my grip fast around the root of his dick, and begin to massage his shaft with a rhythmic pumping of my fist. My other hand flays open my fly and pulls my briefs down below my balls, pushing my cock out like an exclamation pointing from my jeans.
Mojo stares at me, breathless. His gaze shifts from my dick to my face and back again, and when he licks the corner of his mouth, I know this is it, this is real, it’s happening. He wants me, even if he doesn’t yet know why or how.
There’s a half-empty tube of A & D ointment resting among the supplies I set out for Mojo’s tattoo. Without releasing my hold on his dick, I reach over and snag the tube, tossing it his way. He fumbles with it but doesn’t drop it. “Put some in your hand,” I tell him.
He obeys. The clear gelatinous blob quivers in his palm a moment, then he closes his fingers over it to squish it flat. Taking his wrist, I guide him to my crotch. His fingers tighten, almost as if they’re afraid to open, but when I bump his knuckles against my stiff dick, he relaxes and his fingers open like the petals of a flower. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, daring to brush my length with his fingertips.
“Just jerk me off,” I say. I give his own cock an encouraging squeeze as if to show him how. “My dick works the same way as yours.”
For a moment longer, his hand hovers near my dick. I’m aching for him—just take it, please—and I’m just about to tell him he’s not getting off if I don’t when his fingers encircle my length. The ointment squelches against my skin, then lubricates his hand as he begins to slide it up and down. Waves of pleasure crash over me. “Yeah,” I tell him, nodding as my own hand finds a similar rhythm on his dick. “Just like that.”
“Do you need the tube?” he asks. His voice is hushed, as if he can’t believe he’s doing this.
But I have other plans—I shake my head and, as he watches, lean down to kiss the tip of his dick.
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